His dark, shiny eyes, one pointing in one direction, the other in another, as if out of fear of that nose, seemed to want to escape from that yellow, worn-out face.

"They're ruining me, Spatolino, ruining me! A short time ago my young farmhand, 'Baccala,' came by to tell me that my fields have become communal property. Why, of course, they belong to everybody! It's the socialists, understand? They're stealing my grapes while they're still green, my prickly pears, everything! What's yours is mine, understand? What's yours is mine! I'll send him this shotgun. 'Their legs!' I told him. 'Shoot them in the legs. The best medicine for them is lead! That's what they need!' (Rosina, you silly little goose, I told you to bring me some more vinegar and a clean rag.) What did you want to tell me, my son?"

Spatolino no longer knew where to start. As soon as he pronounced Ciancarella's name, he heard a torrent of angry curse words, and when he but mentioned the building of the shrine, he saw Father Lagaipa gaze in openmouthed surprise.

"A shrine?"

"Yes, Father, dedicated to the Ecce Homo. I would like to ask your advice, reverend Father, concerning whether I ought to build it for him."

"You're asking me? That stupid fool, what did you answer him?"

Spatolino repeated what he had said to Ciancarella and, carried away by the praises of the feisty priest, added other things he had not said.

"Very good! And he? That ugly dog!"

"He says he had a dream."

"That swindler! Don't believe him! That swindler! If God had really spoken to him in a dream, He would have suggested rather that he help the Lattugas, those poor souls. To think that he won't accept them as relatives because they are religious and loyal to us, while, on the other hand, he protects the Montoros — understand? — those socialistic atheists to whom he'll leave all his wealth! But enough of this! What do you want from me? Go ahead and build him a shrine. If you don't, somebody else will. Anyway, as far as we're concerned, it'll always be a good thing when a sinner the likes of him gives an indication of wanting somehow to make his peace with God. That swindler! That ugly dog!"

As soon as he returned home, Spatolino spent the entire day designing shrines. Towards nightfall he went to arrange for the building materials and to hire two laborers and a mortar boy. The following day, at daybreak, he began the work.

 

V

People passing along the dusty highway either on foot, on horseback, or with their carts, would stop to ask Spatolino what he was building.

"A shrine."

"Who ordered it?"

And pointing his finger to the sky, he would gloomily say:

"The Ecco Homo."

He gave no other answer during the entire period of construction. People would laugh or shrug their shoulders.

But some of them, looking towards the gate of the villa, would ask:

"Right here?"

It occurred to no one that the notary himself could have ordered the shrine. On the contrary, because no one was aware that that piece of land belonged to Ciancarella too, and they all thought that everyone was quite familiar with Spatolino's religious fanaticism, they believed that, either due to an order from the bishop or to some vow made by the Catholic Society, he was building the shrine right there to spite the old usurer. And they laughed about it.

Meanwhile, as if God actually resented the construction, every sort of misfortune befell Spatolino as he was doing his work. First of all, it took four whole days of digging before he found solid ground for the foundation. Then there were arguments up there at the quarry over the stone, arguments over the lime, arguments with the kiln man; and finally, when the center was being set up to construct the arch, it fell and only a miracle saved the mortar boy from being killed.

At the very end came the bombshell. On the very day Spatolino was to show him the shrine completely finished, Ciancarella suffered a stroke, one of those serious kinds, and within three hours was dead.

No one could then convince Spatolino that the notary's sudden death was not a punishment from a wrathful God. But he didn't believe at first that God's wrath could rain upon him too, for having lent his services — though reluctantly — for the building of the accursed structure.

But he believed it when he called on the Montoros, the notary's heirs, to seek payment for his work, for he heard them answer that they knew nothing about it, and therefore would not acknowledge liability for a debt unsubstantiated by documentary proof.

"What!" exclaimed Spatolino. "And for whom do you think I built the shrine?"

"For the Ecce Homo."

"So it was my idea?"

"Why, of course..." they said to rid themselves of him. "We would feel that we were showing little respect for the memory of our uncle if we imagined even for one moment that he could actually have given you a job to do which was so contrary to his way of thinking and feeling. There's no proof of it. So what do you expect from us? Keep the shrine for yourself, and if that doesn't suit you, you can take legal action."

Spatolino took legal action immediately. Why, of course! Could he possibly lose the case? Could the judges seriously believe that it was all his idea to build a shrine? Moreover, there was the servant who would act as a witness, Ciancarella's very own servant who had summoned him on behalf of his master. And there was Father Lagaipa, to whom he had gone for advice that very day; then there was his wife, whom he had informed, and the laborers, who had worked with him the whole time. How could he lose the case?

He did lose it, he did lose it, yes sir! He lost it because Ciancarella's servant, who had now gone over to serve the Montoros, went to court to testify that he had indeed summoned Spatolino on behalf of his master — bless his soul — but certainly not because his master — bless his soul — intended to have him build a shrine on that site; no, it was rather because he had heard from the gardener, who was now dead (what a coincidence!) that Spatolino himself intended to build a shrine right there, in front of the gate, and he had wanted to warn him that the parcel of land on the other side of the road was his, and that he should therefore take great care in not erecting such an idiotic structure in that place. The servant added that one day he even told his master — bless his soul — that Spatolino, despite the prohibition, was over there digging with three laborers, and his master — bless his soul — had answered: "Oh, let him dig! Don't you know he's crazy? He's probably looking for treasure in order to complete St. Catherine's Church!" Father Lagaipa's testimony did him no good since it was well known that the priest had inspired Spatolino to commit so many other foolish acts. What is more, the laborers themselves testified that they had never seen Ciancarella and had always received their daily wages from the master builder.

Spatolino rushed out of the courtroom as if he had lost his mind. He felt crushed, not so much on account of the loss of the small fortune he had spent in the building of the shrine, and not so much for the expenses of the trial, which he was condemned to pay, but rather because of the collapse of his belief in divine justice.

"So then," he repeatedly asked himself, "so then, does God no longer exist?"

At Father Lagaipa's instigation, he appealed the verdict.